


Cooking with Garlic

by Red



Series: "Lessons" Verse [4]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Coming In Pants, Domestic, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutant Powers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Sub Erik, There's A Tag For That, in like both meanings of the word power, sink jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thank you to pornographic-sink-gif makers everywhere for this one. If you're into those stainless steel bars of soap, I am sorry. Title hails from a wonderful comment on the original post that inspired this fic. </p><p>Charles isn't the world's best chef, but he at least makes clean-up reasonably interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking with Garlic

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [sweetlyenchains](http://sweetlyenchains.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, based on this lovely [gif and post](http://sweetlyenchains.tumblr.com/post/78713058640/panzercat-sweetlyenchains-panzercat). 
> 
> Warning, the gif is... oddly mesmerizing. 
> 
> (of course, the subtitle is: _jerk off your sink_ ).

It's a rare occasion that they cook at Charles's apartment. Understandable--when Charles deigns to stock the fridge, he does so exclusively with take-out containers and alcohol, not that Erik has ever complained. But, about once a year, it gets into Charles's head that cooking might be construed as romantic. 

And Erik tries to talk him out of it, every year. Maybe it was cute the _first_ time Charles tried to make something not from a box, but extinguishing grease fires on your birthday gets old fast. Erik can’t understand how it happens--the guy teaches genetics, how complicated can the instructions in an ancient (and now charred) copy of _The Enchanted Broccoli Forest_ be? While Charles is normally anything but incompetent, put him in the kitchen and it’s a nightmare. It’s particularly confounding to someone like Erik, who’s been cooking for himself since he was thirteen. He's never so much as singed a pan, much less melted one _into_ the stovetop.

At least by now, Erik has negotiated the gentle art of gracefully accepting your partner's idea of cooking. Step one, let him choose the recipe. Step two, set him up with prep work. Step three, start "helping" with everything else and just take over the more challenging aspects of the meal, ie, anything beyond the dicing phase. 

There's no way an omega-class psychic can possibly not know what Erik's up to, he thinks every time he just steps between Charles and the stove, but every time it seems Charles is as concentrated as ever on chopping or stirring. It took him thirty minutes to figure out garlic cloves tonight, and by the time dinner was finally done Erik was starving and his back was strained from leaning over the low range, but at least they didn’t wind up inviting the fire department. 

Afterwards, Charles cleans up, as he always does with these endeavors. While he doesn't keep house quite as well as Erik’s accustomed to, by now he’s in the habit of cleaning up before Erik's thoughts start becoming more or less consumed with how full the sink is. Erik's sitting on the couch, comfortably full and just enjoying the low buzz of Charles's pride in how the meal turned out, his legs stretched out and his own senses lazily tracking Charles's motions. 

It's not as if this was any special occasion--tonight, Charles just said he wanted to surprise Erik--so they don't need to be anywhere or to do anything else beyond this. Domestic use of high-level mutant powers is probably the second-most strenuous thing they'll get up to; Erik isn't planning on anything much more adventurous than neck with Charles for an hour before they pass out. He feels a surge of interest in the back of his mind, and the sound of Charles clanging around pots speeds up. Erik grins, and considers just moving to the bedroom right now--Charles is almost done, anyway--but Erik is enjoying, as ever, the faint motion of Charles's chair as he works, the pull of bone and muscle against the mesh and rods in his back. 

He's almost sure Charles is done by now. Everything metal is off to one side, where Erik knows the wood drying rack is, but that doesn't mean Charles has cleaned the cutting board or anything else Erik can't sense. Erik’s finally getting his legs off the coffee table, about to stand when he feels it. 

Charles has rubbed one of his hands over the long neck of the faucet. And not accidentally. It’s a long, slow, very deliberate sort of action.

Strange enough, had Charles done it just the once. But not unimaginable. Maybe he's getting soap off, Erik thinks, but Charles does it again. And then again. Repeatedly. Whatever he's doing, he's certainly doing a lot of it--stroking his hand up and down over the faucet in a long but firm motion, almost as if he's--

Flushed, Erik jolts to his feet. He can't feel anything in the telepathic connection that hints to Charles teasing, so he’s either blocking or inexplicably paying a great deal of personal attention to a _sink_. And though Erik would normally just stop sensing the metal, now that it's happening... He can't help find it sort of intriguing. 

Yes, he thinks. That is definitely the word, intriguing. He stalks to the kitchen, sure Charles will stop and turn around with that flirtatious grin, but that isn't what happens. 

Sure enough, all the dishes are done. But Charles still has the sink on, still has his back to Erik, and as Erik watches he just--he just keeps jerking off the faucet. 

"Erhm," Erik tries. Clearing his throat, he considers how to start a little more eloquently. 

"Oh, I'm almost done, darling," Charles says, looking back at Erik. 

He _seems_ innocent enough. But the fact remains, Erik thinks, that his boyfriend is giving a handjob to a kitchen appliance and while Erik has never been the best at understanding others he feels justifiably at sea. 

Also, Charles? And innocent? Erik leans his hip against the counter and frowns. 

"You _are_ done," he says, shooting a pointed look at the full dishrack, away from the whole sink porn scenario. 

Amusement brightens in Charles's mind. "With the dishes, yes. But I still reek of garlic." 

Erik frowns at the non-sequitur. Okay, maybe he can't think very clearly with Charles switching off to give the sink a little attention from his left hand, and maybe he's glad for the support of the counter as Charles skims his palm over the curve of warm metal. He doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just sends Charles a wave of confused annoyance. 

It's all bluster. There's no way Charles doesn't know what this is doing to Erik, but there’s no sense in admitting so soon that he's turned on by _this_.

"The stainless steel," Charles explains. "Remember? It eliminates odors," he says, and that's exactly the phrasing that was on that dumb metal "soap" Charles once bought. 

"Don’t you have--" Erik pauses. Yes, Charles certainly _had_ a hunk of overpriced stainless steel which Erik felt was, at best, a pseudoscientific effort to execute the placebo effect upon simple household aromas. Erik had only called it out directly when Charles first bought it, and he eventually became accustomed to having Charles use it on occasion. 

It wasn't by the sink any longer. 

Two weeks ago, Charles had issued a well-received challenge for Erik to make himself an  
oversized off-market Pure Wand and--along with some of Charles’s other Crate and Barrel purchases--the soap had fallen victim to the venture. 

He can't even look at the sink.

Charles is ambidextrous. 

"Soap?" he asks, finally. "Don't you have _soap_?"

Charles doesn't stop. He's looking up with that faint grin, now. 

Yeah. He knows exactly what he's doing to Erik. 

"Well, naturally. But this is so effective, and I do need to get this smell off somehow," he says, innocent as a man jacking off a household fixture can possibly manage to be.

That's what the damn soap is for, Erik wants to say, but as Charles smiles and reaches up to turn the spigot off--still stroking his other hand wetly back and forth over the neck of the faucet--his mouth goes dry. 

"No. Leave it on," he finds himself blurting. Charles's thoughts are all curiosity. 

There's no defending it now. Anyway, if Charles just looked away from the sink, he'd see that Erik's dick is uncomfortably straining his jeans. 

"The water. Leave it," he begs, and at that Charles only says "ah," in that bright enthusiastic manner he has every time he discovers something new and apparently quite fascinating about Erik's sexual proclivities. He leaves it, though. He doesn't even make a joke about depleting the water heater, he just twists his wrist, brings his hand down to cup the gushing head. The water runs down his arm, the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt is getting wet. Erik moans, and leans closer. 

"Mmm," Charles is watching him, now, his attention utterly diverted from his task. "So. You wouldn't like it as much with the water off?"

He could easily see the answer in Erik's head, but while he can use Erik's power second-hand, he has trouble understanding metals in the same innate manner. That, and he gets off on humiliating Erik by making him _say_ these things. 

"It's," Erik swallows as Charles tightens his fingers around the outer thread of the aerator. God, he wants nothing more than to unzip his pants and get his cock in Charles's hands. He grips the counter tight. "It warms the metal," he explains, simplifying in his distraction. "I can feel it, the water coming up through the pipes, against the inside of the faucet."

Lust spikes through their connection. He can tell Charles noticed his fantasy. Charles can see how he's diverting his pleasure. If there's anything that turns Charles on more than Erik's control, it's breaking him down, and Erik knows how dangerous that is and can’t turn away. 

"I wonder," Charles says, calm as he starts dragging his right hand up and down the long arc of the faucet as his left hand toys with the head, "there are metal ions in water, yes? Pity we've treated water and there’s so few, but--can you sense them? Can you manipulate them at that level--"

He cuts off when Erik groans. His gaze is piercing, and Erik is barely able to keep from dropping to his knees. From so little, he's already undone. Charles has let his sleeves become completely soaked, and Erik has to close his eyes. It's too much, watching, but now--every motion, he only feels through the metal with greater intensity. 

"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, I can sense them, if I concentrate. But at the molecular level, it's, fuck, it's impossible," he's flushed and the heat coming from the sink isn't helping, he's so hard and pressure of the denim is a constant agony. "Charles," he begs. 

"You could, I think. You've such power, such _control_ ," and the word comes across so lewd, somehow, in the midst of Charles's lecture, "I doubt the subatomic level would be impossible, my dear. I doubt the molecular level would be anything else than a pleasant challenge." 

All of it, Charles is saying like he expects Erik to do it right now, to skate his power through the constant rushing stream of water, to bend it to his will. Erik's utterly winded, already, he's barely standing. He doesn't think he could move a pin, much less sort out the scant traces of aluminum and copper and magnesium in a mass of water. 

He needs to come so badly. But as much as Charles is jerking the sink, as good as it is to have Charles watching him fight to keep himself upright, it's not enough. It's just not quite enough, and he doesn't even know what to ask for, he doesn't even know if he wants this to end. 

"Charles," he groans again, "Charles, I can't." 

"Well, if you won't. Come here. I suppose I can see to giving you a little incentive." 

Charles means to have him step over, to just get close enough that Charles can stroke Erik's dick roughly through his jeans with one hand while he goes at the faucet with the other. The image in Erik’s mind is pornographic, over-bright and sharp around the edges like Charles's projections always are when he's turned on. 

But that--just the image alone--that's almost enough, and when Erik goes to his knees by Charles, that's it. The tight pressure on his balls when he kneels, the way the line of the zipper is digging against him and how Charles's chair feels cold against his skin, it's all suddenly overwhelming.

Clutching onto Charles, the wet heat of come spreads, trapped in his pants and cooling already. He pants through it silently, jaw clenched. It's humiliating, he's more than two decades too old to be coming in his jeans, and Charles has let go of the faucet and he's bracing Erik, gripping at his neck and shoulder while Erik shudders.

Afterwards, he keeps his eyes closed, only shifting so he can get his head in Charles's lap. He needs to stand up, to get cleaned off. The water's still running. He can sense distantly that it's gone cold. Charles doesn't move, and it's ages before Erik moves at all, letting himself soak in the smell of Charles's body, making himself dwell on the uncomfortable sensation of come going cold and sticky his skin.

When he finally gathers his thoughts, he takes a chance and slits his eyes open. Charles is grinning down at him with unrestrained pleasure and surprise. "You came. Just from that," he says, brushing back Erik's hair. His hands are still damp, and it feels nice, the back of Erik's neck cool from where Charles had held him. "That looked rather intense." 

Erik turns his head to nip Charles's palm, and he smirks to hear Charles gasp. "Smugness doesn't suit you," he grumbles, and with a lazy flick of his powers he cuts the water off. Charles is tracing his hand over Erik's jaw, over his mouth, inviting him to bite again. 

"It suits me perfectly well," Charles claims. At least he finally sounds remotely aroused, Erik thinks. Not that he expects Charles to get off from masturbating a household fixture, but--he tilts to get a few of Charles's fingers in his mouth. But it's still nice to hear him at a loss for words for once. 

"It, ah--what was I saying?" Charles strokes over Erik's tongue, slides his fingers back and forth against Erik's teeth. 

He can't possibly expect an answer, Erik thinks, sucking hard. 

"God, Erik. I'm trying to--to say, I have every right to be smug. I gave you a great orgasm and cooked you a nice dinner, and even you have to admit it." 

Pulling back, Erik barely keeps himself from pointing out that, no, he doesn't have to admit anything of the sort. He did all the cooking. Charles just did the prep work. 

And his hand still tastes--and stinks--of garlic. 

"So you did," Erik says, instead, and he ignores the irritating sensation of moving with come-stained jeans on as he braces himself over Charles. They've never fucked in Charles's kitchen, and he could definitely get Charles off like this, licking the tender skin behind the curve of his ear. 

It's tempting. But Charles has been in his chair for a bit long, now, and Erik would prefer to show his appreciation without knowing Charles is blocking discomfort. 

He sucks at Charles's earlobe, and Charles swears and grabs at Erik's ass, and he's projecting a blanket of raw disappointment when Erik draws back. 

"Now, we should go to bed," he says against Charles's neck, breathing over where his mouth had been. "So I can maybe do something _nice_ to you for a change."

There's a wave of indecision from Charles--the idea of fucking in the kitchen is, apparently, a welcome one--but Erik stands with a wince. "And maybe I can pry these off," he grumbles. 

The indecision vanishes immediately, replaced with a keen burst of amusement and interest. "Come on then," he says, smacking Erik's ass before wheeling by. "I think you'll enjoy the walk," and Erik sighs. 

So much for nothing more strenuous than making out. But it's absolutely worth it to feel Charles soaking up his discomfort as he follows him into the bedroom.

Anything is worth proving that twenty dollars of stainless steel Charles bought are much better off in it's current life as a dildo, Erik thinks. Using the sink, though. 

Unquestionably, that produces dramatic results, and Erik tells Charles as much when he finally makes it to bed.


End file.
